


the caged animal your mother raised you to be

by kathleenfergie



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Oneshot, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4454165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathleenfergie/pseuds/kathleenfergie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>you miss indra so much your chest hurts.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>drabbly oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the caged animal your mother raised you to be

**Author's Note:**

> hey first 100 oneshot. 
> 
> this is sort of drabble-y but i really like it and have been sad about indra/octavia's relationship since the end of s2. literally been wanting to write something like this for months. but yeah, this is my second time writing in this sort of pov/style, and i'm enjoying it a lot. hope you do too. 
> 
> don't own shit.

_"mom loved you,"_  he says, his soft eyes boring holes into yours. it is painful sometimes, the way he looks at you. it hurts if you stare too long. you always stare too long.

 _"yeah?"_  you question, scoffing as you run a rock against the sword you don't need anymore.  _"and how long did she hold me before putting me under the floor?"_

he doesn't answer. you both know the answer.

_momma didn't love me, bell. you did._

* * *

you don't want to call it moping and brooding, but if you see bell cross the camp with eyes that search for girl-wonder, you're going to run him through. lincoln told you several times that it might not be a good idea and you almost wish clarke would come back, so long as your brother's puppy eyes were laid to rest.

she's a ghost and she's everywhere, clarke. she isn't dead (at least, you _hope_ she isn't, disdainfully) but everyone's got that face on, like they've just come from her funeral. abby's hands shake and raven won't talk all that much anymore.

you don't say more than a few words to a chosen few, either. except in your sleep, says lincoln.

he snores, anyway.

* * *

you miss indra so much your chest hurts. lincoln braids your hair and you still don the war paint. you won't hide the scars you've earned from war.

you are not a grounder anymore. you are no one's second and you have only your sword as comfort. you miss comfortable silence and authority, the woman who had done a better job than your worthless mother.

bell knows why you hate mom so much, but he can't. he won't.

 _"she gave me you,"_  he says quietly, every _damn_ time, and you grit your teeth and hug him tight. you listen to him at night as he talks about all the books he misses, the stories he used to tell you as a baby.

you don't give a shit about history, but history named you, and that's worth something, isn't it?

when bellamy is done telling you all his little secrets, you go to the water and scrub the kohl from your face. you pretend not to notice the salt licked from your cheeks. it doesn't matter.

you push the heel of your palms into tired eyes and go to lincoln, aching for him. for indra.

hell, even lexa.

* * *

you find her at night, when you are restless and feel too much like the caged animal your mother raised you to be.

she looks like shit and her blonde braids are dirty and knotted, but she's alive.

clarke's always been a thick girl and the hollows of her cheeks scare you. you wonder if it is actually a ghost, the one bell has been following.

she doesn't talk, thank god, as you lead her back to camp. you notice that she's finally learned to walk quietly through the trees.

she feels wrong to you, but you are all wrong, out of place on the ground were not born on. bellamy does not let her go for days and you are almost jealous. you remember that this is the boy who risked his life to give you a dance.

you have not danced since that night, and later in the dark, you sway naked with lincoln.

you leave the artist and the historian to their own moves.

* * *

you imagine if it had only been you, if bell hadn't existed, and your hearts speeds at the thought of how lonely that would have been. aurora was never a friend, let alone a mother to you.

you would not be the girl, the _warrior_ , you are today without the space under the floor suffocating you.

* * *

bell's eyes are still sad and you imagine it is because girl-wonder is still silent. you want to shake her, wake her up from the sleep she has dived into. want to carve the mountain tomb out of her chest and bury it, so that she doesn't look so guilty.

you say nothing because you want to hate her. but you don't, you can't.

she did not leave you alone in that tunnel and that is enough, you think.

* * *

the four of you form a silent gang, sitting at the edge of outcroppings together, watching the days pass. bellamy does not shut his mouth, but it is comforting and reminiscent of your life on the ark. the nostalgia is almost welcome.

clarke draws as he goes on about augustus and the rest of rome. he loves augustus.

 _augustus had a sister_ , you think, watching clarke's fingers smudge charcoal against paper that did not burn in the ark's crash. you remember to tell lincoln to make her a sketchbook.

your love lets out a laugh every once and a while, the only one who is actively listening to bell. lincoln sits, elbows resting on his knees, and watches the sun hang low over the trees as bell talks.

none of you are grounders, but you do not belong to the sky anymore. you do not belong anywhere.

it does not hurt as much to return back to camp, flanked by your trio of survivors.

* * *

clarke hands you a drawing of octavia minor, augustus' sister, and you take it. in your tent, it lives silently under your pillow. you take it out and trace the lines of her nose.

she leaves you more portraits at the lip of your tent. space from the view of the ark. jail cells. the moment you stepped onto the ground, hands to the sky. it makes you smile in secret, your only audience lincoln and charcoal faces.

indra.

you hug that one to your chest and weep, kohl droplets staining the back of the drawing. you want to burn it, but you have not seen her scarred face in a year and had forgotten the distinct lines of her tattoo.

you do not remember what your mother looks like and you are glad.

you thank clarke, taking her hand in the dark, lovers beside the two of you. bell lights a fire and flames bounce off four sad faces. lincoln sings folk songs in trigedasleng and you can only pick out some of the words.

bell gives a lesson on the battle of marathon, reenacting his favourite parts, and clarke lets out a chuckle for the first time in a year.

it is enough, you think. it is enough.

_fin._


End file.
